Awardees say indignation trumps intimidation

The battle for a free press sometimes feels like a war
between indignation and intimidation. Journalists learn of abuses of power,
crime, or corruption, and--indignant--they speak out. In response, the
perpetrators of those abuses--be they government officials or criminals--try to
intimidate the journalists into silence with threats, lawsuits, jail, or even
murder. Last night, the Committee to Protect Journalists paid
tribute to a handful of journalists for whom indignation is a driving
force, no matter the scale of intimidation.

"Indignation is what best defines the motivation of those
who do this kind of journalism," Mauri König told a
crowd of nearly 900 in New York's Waldorf-Astoria grand ballroom as he accepted
one of CPJ's International Press Freedom Awards. König is an investigative
reporter who has exposed human rights abuses and corruption in his native
Brazil, including sex trafficking and kidnapping of Brazilian children for
military service in Paraguay. While researching the latter in 2000, König was
captured by suspected Paraguayan policemen and severely beaten, strangled, and
left for dead. He has been threatened with death several times since, but, he
said, "My indignation is greater than my fear."

Another of CPJ's award winners, Mae Azango of
Liberia, practically exudes
indignation. This is directed at former warlords in her once-war-ravaged
country; at corrupt and brutal police; and at complacent government officials.
But Azango reserves special indignation for the secret societies in Liberia who
practice female genital cutting. Reporting on this practice--a
taboo subject in Liberia--led to death threats against Azango this spring and
forced her to take her nine-year-old daughter into hiding. "As a woman I knew
that many women who went through this ritual of cutting as a child are still
bitter and resentful," Azango told those gathered to help raise funds for CPJ.
"In Liberia, we have one of the highest rates of maternal death in the world
and cutting is a big factor in that. ... I knew if we started to talk about it
and they knew the truth, many parents would choose a different path."

Liberia's government, long silent concerning the practice of
female cutting, was also initially
silent when Azango was threatened, but an international outcry soon forced
it to respond. Officials not only spoke up to guarantee her safety, but also to
take
a stand against female cutting. Azango continues to report on the practice,
and to look for other ways to help ordinary people voice their indignation. "We
have learned the importance of independent, truthful media the hard way," she
said. "We do not take it for granted. We understand that information is
essential if we are to hold our leaders accountable and make smart decisions
about our country."

Holding officials accountable and helping ordinary people
voice their indignation--two of CPJ's award winners were absent last night
because their determination to achieve those goals has landed them in prison. Award
winner Azimjon
Askarov is a journalist and human rights defender whose reporting on police
torture and politicized criminal prosecutions in his native Kyrgyzstan led to
demotions of local officials. In retribution, Askarov was slapped with a series
of fabricated charges, including incitement to ethnic hatred, illegal
possession of ammunition, attempting to take a hostage, and complicity in a
police officer's murder. He was beaten in custody, and sentenced to life in
jail. Kyrgyzstan's own human rights ombudsman
has criticized his prosecution and conviction.

Giving voice to
ordinary people was an unexpected calling for Tibetan Dhondup Wangchen, a self-taught documentary filmmaker whose account of Tibetan views of the 2008 Olympics in China begins, "I am not an
educated man. ... However, I would like to say a few things." He goes on to
interview ordinary Tibetans about their grievances with Chinese rule; many of
them are indignant indeed. The film was smuggled out of Tibet, and Wangchen
soon disappeared into the Chinese detention system. Today he is serving a
six-year sentence for "inciting separatism."

For these two, intimidation may appear to have triumphed, at
least briefly. But Askarov will not be
silent. In a letter to CPJ to thank the organization for his award, Askarov
renewed his promise "that no
person and no circumstance would ever force me to abandon my professional duty,"
and asked the international community "to hold the Kyrgyz government to the international commitments and
obligations it has undertaken." Wangchen's voice is more difficult to hear; his
own family gets word of him only when his sister visits the Xichuan Prison in
Qinghai province, western China, where he is being held, and where he has
contracted Hepatitis B. Yet his extraordinary wife, Lhamo Tso--a bread maker with little formal education--saw to it that his film was
published, and now travels the world to advocate for his release. She was on
hand last night to acknowledge his award. Her indignation is quiet but
palpable.

If the imprisonment of Askarov and Wangchen makes you
indignant--and it should--please sign CPJ's two petitions calling for their
release, which are here
and here.

CPJ rounded out last night by honoring indignation in a
seemingly unlikely quarter: Alan Rusbridger,
editor of the U.K.'s Guardian and
recipient of CPJ's Burton Benjamin Memorial Award for lifetime commitment to
press freedom. In his acceptance speech, Rusbridger was a picture of humility,
crediting his reporters, colleagues, and supporters, including the independent
trust that supports the Guardian, and
saying he felt "unworthy" to share the stage with the other awardees. But Slate's Jacob Weisberg, introducing
Rusbridger, told a story of the editor's "steely nerve" in supporting
investigative journalism despite pressure to back down from corporate giants,
libel lawyers, the U.K. parliament, and the commissioner of the Metropolitan
police.

"At this point, it would be wise to conclude that
intimidation does not work on him," Weisberg said. "Whenever anyone attempts to
bully him, he fights twice as hard."

UPDATE: The second paragraph of this post and the photo caption have been changed
to correct the spelling of Mauri König's name.

Elana Beiser is editorial director of the Committee to Protect Journalists. She previously worked as an editor for Dow Jones Newswires and The Wall Street Journal in New York, London, Brussels, Singapore, and Hong Kong.